


The First Time Story

by mcicioni



Category: Wagon Train
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:45:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unofficial coda to the second or third season, before wagonmaster Major Adams, scout Flint McCullough, assistant wagonmaster Bill and cook Charlie go their different ways after seeing the train safely into Sacramento.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Time Story

As Flint McCullough turned into the badly-lit street that led to the Sacramento Steak House, he saw three familiar figures stomp out of the place, closing the door with some finality. Smiling mischievously, he slipped into a dark shop doorway and waited.

"Well, that was one of the worst suppers of my life." That was Major Adams, loud enough to be heard at the other end of the street.

"Steak was even tougher 'n your stews." That was Bill, and the ensuing noises told Flint that Bill must have successfully blocked Charlie's attempt at retaliation. "Right smart of Flint to steer us towards this place and then say goodbye and hightail it out of here."

"The patented McCullough disappearing act. Now you see him, now you don't." The Major again, sounding predictably annoyed, but also resigned, a little weary. With a shake of his head, Flint stepped out and started walking towards his friends.

"He said he was catching the night riverboat to New Orleans. He didn't say how many girls he was going to meet there. We won't see him again until . . ." Charlie's wicked grin turned to a look of amazement as he glanced down the street. "I don't believe it. Guess who's back."

"Well well, speak of the devil," snapped the Major as Flint ambled closer. Flint hung his head with a penitent air that would have looked real to anyone who hadn't spent more than three years riding with him.

"Thought you headed off for New Orleans," the Major said, giving him a long, level look.

"And then I headed back here," Flint replied. "Any objections?"

"I'm turning in," Bill cut in firmly. "I've had four whole months of _Where the devil is McCullough_ ," – his hands-on-hips stance and deep, aggrieved voice were a convincing impersonation of the Major, who was visibly not amused – "and of _Well, it's a long story_ ," – Bill pushed his hat back and shrugged nonchalantly in a perfect imitation of Flint, who laughed and slapped his back. "Now I'm due for a rest. And Charlie and I got tickets for the early morning train."

"We sure do. Come on, Bill, our room's waitin' for us."

Flint sketched a salute as his two friends made their slightly unsteady way towards their hotel. Then he turned to his remaining companion, a corner of his mouth lifting. "And what are your plans for the rest of the evening, Major?"

The other man heaved a happy sigh. "In this order – a drink, a nice long bath, and a bed with actual sheets and blankets instead of a hammock." A beat. "And you?"

"A blanket on the ground of the livery stable," Flint said, his tone a careful blend of bitter disappointment and brave resignation. "By the time I changed my mind and got back here, there wasn't a room to be had in any establishment for love or money." A little lopsided smile. "Well, I'll see you in the morning. Good night." He turned around and moved away a few steps.

"Hold it right there, McCullough." The Major sounded like he was pointing a loaded gun at Flint's back. "We made it here to California, either because you were ridin' scout for us or maybe in spite of it, and it's goin' to be a cold night, and my room . . . Aw, hell. You win. But you're buyin' the drinks. Come on."

Flint turned, beaming. "Thank you, Major. And since I'm a gentleman from Virginia, I'd consider it an honor to buy you as many drinks as you want."

"And remember, I snore."

"I know."

* * * * *

The open window let in the cool night air and some gray light – not enough to disturb anyone who might be sleeping, just enough to allow anyone who might be awake to make out the shapes of objects, furniture or other people. Flint lay on his back, looking at the fluttering curtain and trying to figure things out.

They had shared jail cells, tents, blankets in the rain, and they had slept side by side on the hard ground more times than Flint could remember. So why was he lying awake, not moving a muscle, keeping his breathing slow and even, and wondering what was wrong?

If he closed his eyes, he breathed in the smell of two freshly-bathed bodies; the absence of sweat, dust and assorted horse smells was strange, unsettling. If he opened his eyes, the bulky shape under the same sheet was at the same time familiar and disconcerting – so different from the soft, perfumed girls that shared his bed if he played his cards right, who cuddled up close to him, sometimes sighing with pleasure, sometimes whispering his name.

Thinking about soft noises, Flint stiffened and frowned. That was what was wrong here – no noises at all, nothing reverberating around him. The Major wasn't snoring.

Flint laughed out loud, then grinned when the expected, all-too familiar outburst came.

"What the heck's wrong with you? Are you ever goin' to go to sleep and let _me_ sleep in peace?"

"You know, Major," Flint said, staring into the darkness without smiling: tonight he wasn't going to take up their usual banter. "You know, Major," he repeated quietly, "I've often wondered if you only got three ways of speaking to me. You bellow orders, or you get sarcastic, or you yell at me for what you think I've done wrong. The only times you ever talked soft and nice to me was when I got stung by that rattler and when I drank that poisoned water."

There was a short silence, then the other man turned towards him, eyebrows knitting, mustache quivering. "Oh? The way I see it, _gentleman from Virginia_ , is that there's only two ways _you_ talk to _me_ , you get fresh or you get riled. Anyway, right now there's nothin' to talk about, except how soon we're going to get some sleep. Or maybe you'd like a bedtime story?"

Flint wasn't going to dignify that with an answer. Then he nodded, with enough energy to make the bed shudder slightly, and heard himself speak, a few words at a time.

"Yeah. A bedtime story. About a man I've never got to know well. About places you've been, people you cared about." He paused, drew breath, exhaled. "About that grave in Arizona that you go to on your own every trip." He stopped again. "About who you are when you're not running a wagon train."

The Major sat up, rubbed the back of his head, and studied Flint for a long time. Flint looked up at him and waited.

"Another trip over," the Major said slowly, "and it's always kind of difficult for a man to settle down . . . All right." He took a deep breath, scratched inside his undershirt and laid his hands flat on his knees. "Just don't interrupt."

"I grew up in Polk County, Nebraska." Flint had guessed right – not that the Major's Nebraska twang was all that hard to spot. "Wasn't cut out for farmin', worked a lot of jobs before I joined the army." Flint had heard about one of those jobs, and smirked at the thought of Seth Adams as the manager of prizefighting pugilists in the streets of Boston. He pictured a younger Adams, hair reddish-brown, body still slim, shoulders as broad and hands as powerful as his fighters'.

"Ranie Webster. I met her before the war. Her name wasn't Webster then."

The only woman the Major had ever loved, never his because of a series of accidents and misunderstandings. Flint's guts tightened a little as he wondered what she could have been like, what combination of beauty, intelligence and strength could have melted the defences of the man beside him.

"Bill and Charlie gave me back my legs. And my life." At this, Flint's body tensed in an absurd, impossible wish. He couldn't have been there, he couldn't have done a damned thing to help that broken body, because he'd been fighting for the other side. He'd faced other Yankees who weren't fit to shine the Major's boots, and it was just lucky the two of them hadn't met while one was wearing gray and the other blue.

"She died in my arms. And every time my wagon trains pass that way, I spend a couple of hours visitin' with her. I tell her what I've been doin'. I tell her about Bill and Charlie. I may have even mentioned you once or twice." He sounded resigned, and, in a way, at peace with himself. And he still believed in a merciful God. Flint's faith had burned to ashes along with Jean's house, which the Yankees had torched with Jean and her parents inside.

Flint waited until he was sure the Major had finished, then lifted himself up on an elbow. "Do you think you'll ever love someone else? Get married?"

"How the devil would I know," the Major snapped, then leaned back against the wrought-iron bedstead, interlaced hands behind his head. "There's no knowin' what may happen," he said, more gently. "But I doubt it. I've been alone for too long now. There's no other way I can be."

Even in the dark, Flint could see the intensity in those blue eyes and the effort it took the other man to let his guard down, to allow someone else to glimpse a little of the loneliness behind his authority. Then the blue eyes softened and there was something resembling a twinkle as the Major decided it was his turn to ask the questions.

"Now what about you, hmm? Think those feet'll stop itchin' any time soon? Will I ever meet Mrs McCullough?"

Flint thought of a couple of joking responses, then rejected them. He had to be as straightforward as Adams had been with him.

"Not sure. Maybe itchy feet are an incurable disease." He lowered his voice a little. "There were only two women I could have married. One . . . died. In the war." No, he couldn't talk about that fire. Not now, maybe not ever. "The other one, you met her."

"Sister Rita."

"Sister Rita." But Rita was already all but married, to God instead of a man, and whatever she had felt for Flint wasn't enough to make her break her vows. So Flint had asked for a week's leave and ridden out and gotten drunk and cried on his own, and when he'd got back to the train the nuns had left for their mission, but the Major had been there, solid and no-nonsense, and had given him his orders, and his bearings.

The other women, and there had been plenty of them, had been good companions for a few days and nights, and with all of them he'd shared some laughs, liking as well as lust, some tenderness, some warmth. And when women had not been available there had been men; not all that many, but Flint had gotten something from them as well, had learned that there could be tenderness even in a short encounter in an alleyway or a livery stable, and that liking could be expressed without words, with just a look, a touch, a breath.

He felt a heavy hand on his bare shoulder. "You'll find the right girl sooner or later. Your mouth's too big for its size sometimes, and your insubordination is beyond belief, but you're not the worst man to have around when things get rough." Flint leaned a little into the warm touch, grinning as the other man continued, "Some people might say you're kind of useful. And some people might even call you good-lookin'."

"The same people, I hope," Flint said, deadpan. The Major huffed a brief laugh and took his hand away, and Flint knew he didn't want the hand to leave his shoulder; he wanted to return the touch, and give more, and take more. That was why he'd got off the boat just before it cast off; that was why he deliberately hadn't tried to find out if any rooms were available for the night.

His eyes wandered to the chair where he'd hung his jacket, to the pocket where he kept his compass. On the job or off it, he often strayed, distracted by a meeting with an old friend, by someone who needed help, by a challenge – or by a pair of eyes, or a shapely figure. But he never lost his way, because the compass was always there, to show him where he was and where he was meant to be; and he never strayed for long – even when he'd quit, a couple of times, or been fired, a couple more times – because Seth Adams was always somewhere at the back of his mind, capable as well as cantankerous, not always right but always aware of what right was, not always friendly but always a friend he could count on, someone who'd risk his life for him without a second's thought, and then yell at him for days after.

He'd known all this. He'd always known this. He'd just never admitted it until now. He blew out a long breath, aware that he was about to get himself into a whole lot of trouble. Then he felt an impatient elbow poke his ribs.

"You listenin' to me?"

"I always listen to you, sir," Flint said sweetly.

"That'll be the day. I was sayin' you got your bedtime story. Now will you shut up and go to sleep," the Major jabbed a finger at Flint, "or would you like me to tuck you in and kiss you goodnight?"

Flint looked at the finger. A line between them, a border. He could keep all his thoughts to himself, say goodnight, keep on his side of the border, now and for ever. Or he could cross the line and maybe lose a friend, a job, a direction, and probably also a couple of teeth. A day on this last trip flashed into his mind, a snow-covered mountain; he and that madman's son – what was the boy's name? Steve something or other – had had no way to go but up, and he'd told Steve that a brave man is a man who's scared stiff and climbs anyway.

 _Start climbing, McCullough._

"Funny you should say that," he drawled. He pushed the finger aside, reached up, and brushed the other man's lips with his own.

He'd meant it as a lighthearted touch, carrying on from the way – the flirting way, and he'd always known it – he had often teased the Major: _You don't appreciate what I'm worth to you_ , _Did you miss me? What kept you?_ Or maybe he'd meant it as a challenge, a test. He wasn't prepared for the shiver that ran through his body and made him tense and harden in a split second.

He heard and felt a gasp against his lips, then a low "I'll give you funny," and before he could think about defending himself he felt the other's full lips open and take his, fast and firm and hungry, and the heavy hand was on his shoulder again, thick hard palm stroking circles on his skin and slowly running down his spine to settle on the small of his back and pull him closer, and Flint knew that unless they stopped for breath he was going to burst like a fourteen-year-old boy alone behind the woodshed. Reluctantly, he broke away, moved back a little and just looked, smiling in delight at the unexpected sight of Seth Adams staring back at him, face flushed, undershirt askew and drawers tenting like an Indian tepee. Flint glanced up, looked down again and gave a low, appreciative whistle.

"Why, sir, I'm flattered," he said in an exaggerated Southern accent.

The other man didn't smile back. He looked into Flint's eyes, shook his head and then, swiftly and wordlessly, one hand still on Flint's shoulder, he thrust the other hand into Flint's drawers, unhesitatingly closed it around him and squeezed and stroked in a rough, relentless rhythm, not skilful but not fumbling either. Flint's breath caught in his throat as realization dawned on him, with a stab of stupid jealousy over the earlier, unknown man or men; then the sensations in his body were too quick and powerful for him to think, and all he could do was tense, contract and spasm, furiously, joylessly.

Still without a word, Adams lifted his hand from Flint's shoulder, briefly ruffled his hair and muttered "Good night", then turned around and lay down.

Flint stared at him with narrowed eyes, then lightly tapped his broad, stiff back.

No response.

"Come on. You know you're not getting away with that, I'm at least as stubborn as you are."

This time there was a reply, a volley of short sentences fired off one after the other. "That's enough, Flint. We got nothin' to discuss. And before you ask why not – I'm old. Heavy. Tired. And whatever you want from me, I can't give it to you."

"Mature. Solid. That'll be the day," Flint fired back at once, shot for shot. "And you don't know what I want from you, because I haven't told you."

The other man turned slowly and stared at him. "Go ahead and tell me."

Sometimes, at night, when the circle of wagons had settled, the two of them played chess. Flint lost two times out of three: his game was too bold and reckless, while the Major was cautious and determined, always castling safely and waiting for his opponent to stick his neck out. Well, this was a game Flint didn't want to lose. And it was his move now.

"I want to show you something," he said quietly, running a fingertip along the folds of flesh in Seth's face, learning each one, each wrinkle at each side of Seth's nose – it had been broken, who knows where, when, by whom – and wide mouth, each bristle of the short, straight mustache, and feeling himself beginning to stir again as his fingers strayed down into the opening of the other man's undershirt. "But you've got to lose this."

"Over my dead body, McCullough. You don't want to see what's inside it."

"Don't tell me what I don't want, Adams. Shut up and lift your arms." This time being bold and reckless worked – Seth sat up and half-lifted his arms, and Flint slipped the undershirt off and threw it away in one smooth movement. Swiftly he removed his own drawers, wondering whether it was possible to get Seth to do the same – but better not, he already was skittish enough. He pushed Seth back on the bed and half-sprawled over him, looking straight into his eyes as he let him feel his weight and his arousal, and bending to kiss the wide mouth again, long and deep this time, not giving Seth time to breathe, let alone shout objections. Flint laughed a brief challenge into Seth's mouth as he slid a thigh between the other man's legs and ground his naked crotch into those damned drawers – and felt two large, determined hands grabbing hold of his ass and hauling him over, in position, pressing down on Seth's own arousal. Oh yes, this was the right move, Flint smiled to himself, trying to ignore the fact that his own body was becoming as taut as a drawn bow as he slid a hand between the two of them to undo all the buttons and draw out the other man's warm erect flesh, and with a small grunt of satisfaction he began to build a strong rhythmic thrust. Seth Adams matched him move for move, hips rising to meet every thrust, answering Flint's soft groans with ragged breaths, eyes never leaving Flint's while their bodies slammed and pressed and rubbed against each other until he bit his lip hard and arched and spurted, long and fast and silently, as a warm, unguarded smile broke out on his rugged features.

Checkmate, Flint thought happily, only then letting release burst out of his own body, as powerful as a flying arrow. "That's what I want," he gasped when it was over, sliding off Seth and drawing circles with his fingertips in the sweat-damp hair of the other man's chest. "Not _from_ you. _With_ you." He stroked a brawny forearm. "It gets even better with practice."

Seth took hold of his hand and stopped it, then spoke slowly, extracting each word from some locked-up place inside himself. "In the army, sometimes . . . things like this happen. Whether they're right or not, they do." He sighed and lowered his voice. "But if a man's got any sense . . . he's got to forget they happened the moment he buttons up his pants. And he's got to keep them out of his mind."

Flint grimaced, then reminded himself that setting a new course always called for patience and effort. "As a military man . . ." he drawled, "have you ever heard of the notion of calculated risk?" He sensed more than saw the other's scowl, and gave the shoulder next to him a light, teasing bite. "Think about it, Major. I'm going to follow your advice and get some sleep."

He rolled over onto his stomach and closed his eyes. The last thing he was conscious of before he drifted off was an exasperated snort turning into a soft chuckle.

* * * * * *

The sounds of a milk cart trundling along the street jolted Flint awake. He blinked, remembering, and felt a smile coming on as he sat up.

He was alone in the room.

He swore to himself before he noticed that the Major's shirt, vest and hat were neatly piled up on the chair where they had been deposited the previous night. He shook his head and got up, poured water from the heavy pitcher into the basin, and quickly washed his face, armpits and private parts.

He was buttoning up his shirt when the door opened and the Major walked in, pants and undershirt back on but hair still tousled and sticking out every which way. A nod, a small twitch of his mouth under the mustache, a flash of uneven teeth, and then he fished out his shaving kit from his carpetbag, pushed Flint out of the way and took his place in front of the basin. Flint leaned against the door, the smile creeping back to his face all by itself.

"What're you grinnin' at?" the Major muttered, pouring water into his shaving cup and producing his cut-throat razor.

"Good morning to you too," Flint said, crossing his arms and looking him over.

"Is it?"

"Yes. The sun is shining; we're in a city and not a desert or a forest or the middle of a river; nobody's shooting at anybody, I don't have to ride off on my own and be knifed or beaten up or kidnapped; we can have a big breakfast that hasn't been cooked by Charlie, and . . . Oh. Right. This is when you give me a talking-to."

"What talkin'-to?" the Major snapped, lathering his face and throat.

"The one you got ready while I was asleep. About last night being a mistake. About how wagonmasters and scouts are like army officers – if something happens that isn't in the rules, forget about it."

"Simmer down, will you?" The Major turned to face him, brandishing his razor, not quite shouting but not far from it. Flint glanced at the wall that divided their room from Bill and Charlie's, then thought about stable doors and horses and shrugged.

"Now look here," the Major all but yelled, throwing his razor down, "nobody's goin' to give anyone a talkin'-to. And you know why?" Flint shook his head warily. Adams lowered his voice, scrubbed a towel across his face and sat down heavily on the bed. "Because I've already done all the talkin'. To myself. I told myself that yes, there are rules. But rules aren't always hard and fast. Sometimes you've got to . . . find your way alone." He paused, looked up at Flint, spoke abruptly. "How old're you, thirty-three?"

"Thirty-four."

"Right. I'm twenty-one years older than you. And . . ."

Flint forestalled the move. "You're twenty-one years ahead of me. And you're going to stay ahead. For the rest of your life, and mine. "

Adams glared at him. "That's not what I meant, and you know it." He got up, glanced around the room and reached for his shirt. Flint grabbed it, tried to help him into it, and neatly dodged a cuff aimed at his head.

Flint moved away a couple of steps, watching while the other man finished dressing. "Well," he said slowly, and he was absolutely sure he was right, all he had to do was get this pig-headed man to agree with him, "look at it this way. This is uncharted territory. For me as well as you. There's going to be all sorts of dangers and traps, and who knows what we'll find at the end of it. But I'm a good scout. And I got a good compass."

Adams stood still for a long moment, then took a step towards Flint and put his hands on his shoulders.

"All right," he said. "We'll keep our eyes open. Now let's go, we've got just enough time for breakfast before we see Bill and Charlie off."

* * * * * * * *

A whistle, a few puffs of grey smoke, and the train pulled out of the Sacramento railway station. Flint followed it with his eyes until it disappeared in the distance.

"They'll have a good time," he said. "Charlie'll spoil Bill's kids rotten, and Emily'll get mad at all of them. And in a month's time the two of them'll be back in St. Joe, glad to be starting a new trip."

Seth Adams pushed his hat back, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. "Hot here," he said, to no one in particular. "They tell me it's cool on the riverboat to New Orleans. Of course, cooped up in a cabin together, we might kill each other before we get there."

The uncharted territory would have to be crossed carefully, but along the way there would be stretches of plain country where riding was easy, and waterfalls and rolling hills as well as ravines and brush and rocky crags. Flint drew a deep breath.

"I took a calculated risk before I came back last night," he said casually, looking straight ahead. "I got two tickets to New Orleans in my pocket. Boat's leaving in half an hour. Coming?"

**Author's Note:**

> Note 1: All my thanks to Miriam, who is not a slash fan but cheerfully corrects my linguistic and narrative blunders.
> 
> Note 2: The title is a self-indulgent in-joke, since about 90% of the 284 _Wagon Train_ episodes are entitled "The XYZ Story"


End file.
